


Dupont Circle

by alba17



Series: Steve/Bucky 30 Day OTP Challenge [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Breaking and Entering, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Memories, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sharing Clothes, Surveillance, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, before Bucky recovers his memories, immediately after the movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 00:44:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5437118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alba17/pseuds/alba17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of CA:TWS, the Winter Soldier investigates Steve Roger’s apartment and encounters traces of his former self. He takes something and leaves something. For 30 Day OTP Challenge, Day 6: wearing each other’s clothes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dupont Circle

**Author's Note:**

> I can confidently say that I’ve completely strayed from the intent of the 30 Day OTP Challenge. There’s nothing remotely 30 day about my effort. Basically I’m just having fun working my way through the prompts. I started a fluffy version of this, then I had this idea. There’s a nod to the Civil War trailer in there.

The mission lives by himself in an apartment in Dupont Circle. That's where he went after checking out of the hospital, where the security had been lax and the surveillance simple. The soldier had watched him for days. Because of the constant flow of hospital personnel, patients and visitors, the man with the wings and the Black Widow were easy to avoid.

The mission could’ve been completed at any point. He didn’t do it. Couldn’t. Not after the helicarrier. For reasons he’s still trying to untangle. The reasons that he can’t stop tracking the mission.

Luckily the Widow’s gone underground. The wing man—Sam, he heard the mission call him—has been to the apartment but not as often as he went to the hospital. More of a soldier than a spy, that one. Not much of a threat without the wings and the soldier can deal with him, if necessary.

The apartment’s simple to break into, old-fashioned windows with wooden sashes that rattle in the frame. No security. He ponders that curiosity while he waits on the roof across the street, tugging at the sleeves of the too-small t-shirt he’d scavenged. Finally, a tall figure appears. Wearing a navy baseball cap and aviators, the mission emerges from the front door of the building. Quickly the soldier makes his way down, crosses the street and climbs up the fire escape to slip through the window. 

Spartan inside, just a few personal touches here and there. On the bookshelf is an old black and white photo in a frame, one of several. He takes the photo down. It's his face from the Smithsonian exhibit: “Bucky Barnes." Bucky and the mission are standing together, smiling but weary, in army fatigues and dog tags, arms loose around each other’s shoulders. It means nothing; they’re strangers to him, even the man with his face. But his insides shift, as if instead of solid, dry ground, he’s stepped into mud. For so long he was never allowed to think for himself. His world was narrowed by strict parameters, the consequences severe if he strayed beyond them.

Since the helicarrier, the boundaries have been fractured. A million confusing data points kaleidoscope in his mind. He gropes for reality and keeps coming back to the mission. The last definite data point.

He always completes his missions. Always. 

_I’m not gonna fight you. You’re my friend._

Reality slides away for a minute, leaving the scent of wet socks and cigarettes; damp leaves and gasoline. His stomach roils and dark flickers at the edges of his vision.

Focus on the mission. Focus on the mission. The old photo in his shaking hand, that smile, faded and tired. Blue eyes rendered grey. _Steve._ He knows it’s Steve Rogers, _aka_ Captain America. The exhibit told him that much. _Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, best friends since childhood._ But he can’t…the mission…they never have names…easier that way…

He can’t look at the man with his face - _Bucky_.

He moves on to the bedroom, where the bed is made with military precision, corners viciously tucked in. There's a dresser and a nightstand with an old-fashioned alarm clock and a stack of books: a sketchbook and a couple of thick books about American history, _The Making of the President 1960_ and _All the President's Men_. Fear claws up his throat and he wrenches away his gaze.

The top drawer of the nightstand contains pens, notepads, another sketchpad and some colored pencils. He selects the sketchbook and flips through it: drawings of “Bucky,” a beautiful, dark-haired girl who was in some of the old photos in the living room; the Widow and Sam, a smirking man with a dark goatee, and a burly giant with long blond hair (enhanced? his mind provides).

But mostly it’s the man with his face, wearing clothes from another time or the World War 2 uniform. The soldier examines the drawings with care. Desperately he wills himself to remember, but nothing comes. 

_You know me._

When he sees the last sketch, he snaps shut the sketchbook and shoves the drawer closed. It was him, the soldier, with a look on his face that he can’t identify.

On to the dresser. The top drawer is filled with neatly arranged underpants and socks. Next is t-shirts, one pile of white ones and another of colored ones. He sifts through those and pulls out a blue one. His fingers the fabric, then sniffs it. Puts it back. The mission’s uniform is blue—dark blue. He remembers that from the helicarrier.

The clothes hamper he finds in the closet under the button down shirts and khakis. Propelled by an impulse he can’t understand, he shoves his flesh hand in and sorts through the dirty clothes. A red t-shirt catches his eye. He pulls it out and holds it up to assess the size. It’ll do. He takes off his jacket and the too-small shirt that always catches on his metal arm and pulls on the mission’s ( _Steve’s_ ) shirt. He looks down at the fit—satisfactory—then throws his old shirt in the hamper and puts the jacket back on. Something in him slots into place. 

A memory rises: a cold apartment, radiator rattling under the window, paint peeling on the ceiling. Lying on a bed under a blanket, the mission's nose buried in his neck. Soft cotton under his fingertips, sliding over warm skin. A feeling...something good...he can almost remember...

It's gone. Ghosted away, clouds in his mind.

Shaken, he clenches his eyes and curls his flesh hand in the hem of the t-shirt. Gotta get out of here. He's been here too long already. The mission...need to find him again...too long out of his sight. The soldier does a once over to make sure he's left everything in its place--except for the old t-shirt of course. The photos he eyeballs to ensure they're positioned properly but avoids focusing on them. When he's satisfied, he slips back out the window. 

The shirt feels good. Much better than that other one. Smells better too.


End file.
